


don't give it a hand (offer it a soul)

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Choking, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Pre-Slash, Red Room (Marvel), Red Room!Bucky, Ronin Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: So James tries a different approach. He lowers his voice and eases forward, keeping his expression and body language open. “My name is James,” he says, and he canseethe question that sentence makes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”A wry look crosses the man’s face, dark and edged with distrust. “Yeah,” he says. “Notyet.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 15
Kudos: 160
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	don't give it a hand (offer it a soul)

They present him like a gift, tied up all neat and pretty. He _is_ pretty, James thinks, even bloodied and bruised and bleeding. He’s awake, too, glaring at James and his handler like his very gaze might disintegrate them. “Who the hell are you?” he snaps, and he sounds like he’s been screaming. He probably has been.

“He’s yours,” the handler says to James, ignoring the man’s question.

James does not trust gifts, even pretty ones with fire in their eyes, but he knows better than to question the handler. It would be remiss of him to accept without knowing the parameters, though, so after a beat of silence, he says, “What would you like me to do with him?”

“Whatever you’d like.” There’s a cruel twist to his mouth. “He was bothering us. We took him out of commission, but now we have no use for him. You’ve been performing well, as of late. So...he’s yours to play with as you see fit. You can break him. Hurt him. You can even kill him, if you’d like.”

_If you’d like._ There’s an amusing turn of phrase. James does not have the luxury of doing the things he’d like.

He might’ve, once upon a time. Before he was half metal and all weapon. He dreams about Brooklyn alleyways and fistfights and the touch of someone kind. But he’s been here as long as he reliably can remember, and _if you’d like_ is not a part of his daily life.

Still. This has been offered to him, and to say no would be a mistake. So he nods, injecting some gratefulness into his tone. “Will he be staying here?”

“You can take him to the detention cells,” the handler says. “I’d suggest you clean him up first. He smells.”

He leaves, then, and James is alone with the man. Those blue eyes are fixed on him, hazy with pain but still sharp enough to understand and follow the conversation. He flinches as James moves closer, then scowls about it, like he’s annoyed at his body’s reactions. James hides an amused smile and shows his hands. Innocent. Nothing to hide. The man doesn’t buy it for a second, judging by that expression.

James lowers his hands. “What is your name?”

“Tinkerbell,” the man spits. There’s a challenging tone to his voice, and a stubborn set to his jaw.

There are different ways to break people. James is intimately familiar with many of them. Pain is good, if somewhat unreliable. Fear works too. A combination of both tends to be most effective when it comes to shattering someone. Break them into a thousand pieces, glue them back together in a different way. Do it over and over until they no longer remember how the pieces originally fit, and all that remains is a new person, a new weapon in their place.

From the looks of it, though, something has already broken this man. James can see it in the shattered-glass way he holds himself, like he might cut his own skin if he moves too sharply. There is already fear and pain here, and probably has been long before the Red Room took him. He is like a wounded animal, snapping and biting at anything that gets too close.

So James tries a different approach. He lowers his voice and eases forward, keeping his expression and body language open. “My name is James,” he says, and he can _see_ the question that sentence makes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

A wry look crosses the man’s face, dark and edged with distrust. “Yeah,” he says. “Not _yet_.”

James smiles like a shark. “Not yet,” he agrees. “I suppose that depends on you, doesn’t it?” He moves a little closer, running his fingers along the man’s bare chest. He has been allowed pants, but nothing else, and James’ fingers are free to explore bare skin and wounds as he sees fit. The man makes no move to stop him—not that he can, with his arms strung up above his head—but he does watch, eyes fixed on James’ hand as it trails over a body that’s more bruise than skin.

“Tell me your name,” James murmurs, pressing on one. It’s particularly nasty, purple and yellow mottled together. It looks like it hurts. It _sounds_ like it hurts, judging from the pained grunt.

“Peter Pan,” the man says.

James shakes his head. “Try again.” He doesn’t press on the bruise more, but he leaves his hand there, a quiet threat. His other one traces up, metal fingers drifting over a collarbone before lightly settling around his throat. Another threat, perhaps more imminent. “Tell me your name.”

The man swallows reflexively. James can feel it under his hand, and they both know it. He lets his fingers tighten—a second warning.

“Ronin,” the man says, which is closer to the truth, but still not quite there.

“Your _name_ ,” James murmurs. “Not what the frightened masses call you. Not the name they whisper into the darkness. Not what they’re afraid of summoning.” He leans forward, lips brushing against the man’s ear. There’s a shudder under him, quickly stilled. “I don’t care about that other one. I want _you_.”

The man huffs out a quiet laugh. “No, you don’t,” he mutters, so softly that James is certain he wasn’t meant to hear it at all. Might not have, if they weren’t standing so close.

But he did hear it, and his fingers tighten further. A punishment, not a warning. He watches impassively as the man chokes, eyes going wide—not necessarily fear, but something else. Apprehension, maybe? Arousal?

James doesn’t hold it long. He lets go at the beginning of the struggle, at the first twitch for air. They both know that’s a choice, on his part. He could have held it much longer. 

_He’s yours to play with as you see fit._

He allows air in, and leaves his hand where it is. “Don’t assume you know what I want,” he says, keeping his voice low and soothing. “Tell me your name.”

Another swallow, and for the first time, those blue eyes drop to the ground. “Clint,” he finally says. James keeps waiting, and after a moment, a quiet, “Barton” follows it.

“Clint Barton.” James tastes the name in his mouth. He likes it more than he thought he would. There’s mystery to be found in it, something that will take time and patience to unravel.

James is more than ready for the challenge.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, letting that predator smile curve his mouth again, and Clint Barton closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


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